


Blind Man's Bluff

by gummycola



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mention of a past violent act, Rating for Language, Romantic Comedy, So cheesy do not eat if lactose intolerant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummycola/pseuds/gummycola
Summary: The King and Queen of Spades seek potential suitors for their Prince, Alfred F. Jones.It is time for Captain Arthur James Kirkland to show his hand.One problem, here -- no one is playing with a full deck.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Blind Man's Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> Isä = Finnish for father, and if I've messed up the usage at all please tell me, I apologize if so.  
> Mulligan = a swear word in this universe :)

15 May XX20

_Arthur -_

_The cards are on the table._

_Three weeks after the birthday of our dear A._

_I will be expecting you._

_-M_

* * *

Much could, and often would, be given the title “the pride of Spades.” For her formidable castle this was apt, its extensive grounds well-used and well-loved, its cerulean spires forever reaching upward, a symbol of modernity, of growth, visible for miles across the land.

Visible, too, from afar are the masts of her unconquerable vessels, blue and white flags heralding the “pride” of the Spadian Navy – a relieving sight, a sign of freedom for some, and a harbinger of death for others.

Beneath one such flag, a man stands with eyeglass forward, waiting to see those spires again. This man has played both saint and scourge, has delivered hope and despair. For six years he has sailed beneath the Spadian flag, the weight of it constant, the blue and white an ever-watchful eye—the eye of the spire, of the long-awaited, of the long ago.

This man knows who the _true_ pride of Spades is—Alfred Fidelitas Jones, her Prince. The jewel of the Spadian crown, the joy of the royal family, beloved by his people. The beauty, the genius, the—

loud-mouthed _brat,_ honestly.

With a flourish, the eyeglass is collapsed and tucked away, and with another flourish, Arthur leaves the bow of the ship, his boots snapping neatly against the deck as he heads aft. Inside, his stomach rolls as if he’s never had his sea-legs. Sweat is collecting beneath the brim of his ridiculous tricorne, his hands are trembling, his mind is reeling and all he wants is for the damn ship to go _faster, faster dammit can’t this thing go any faster—_

“Captain!”

The quartermaster steps away from the shrouds to grip Arthur’s shoulder, his weathered face wearing an easy grin. “Less than an hour now, I’d reckon. Relax, relax!” he shouts in Arthur’s face. The poor man’s hearing is going, hence the shouting, but it does nothing for Arthur’s frayed nerves.

Arthur just nods, pats the hand at his shoulder and continues to his quarters to check his trunks, his papers, his journal, his clothing, himself, the letter, the trunk again, the inside of his best boots, the medals on his dress uniform—

“Land ho!”

The call gets taken up and repeated, and Arthur bursts back to the hull, nearly crashing into the helmsman as he takes up the glass—land, a cluster of docks and low buildings, their roofs a beautiful deep blue. Looking east and away, he can see it—the day is clear, and the glint of a sapphire window is visible, the westernmost tower is _there_ , looking deceptively near, but still two days of riding away—if he’s lucky enough to _get_ a ride.

Arthur’s hesitance is chased away by a growing, glowing feeling of satisfaction. The helmsman shuffles away in discomfort as a rather crazed and familiar grin takes over the Captain’s face.

He’s home.

And he’s ready to collect what is rightfully _his_.

* * *

Toris hates curtains.

They collect dust, they’re fire hazards, they aren’t as effective as blinds—they have to be washed, and they go out of style over the years. The princes’ cats shred them, the queen’s dogs chew on them, and sometimes, fresh out of bed and desperate to get his prince to wake up, Toris himself gets caught in the big, heavy, awful things.

Not today, though. Oh no, today, Toris Laurinaitis will not be conquered by curtains. He flings them aside triumphantly, and early morning sunlight splashes merrily onto the mosaic tiles of Alfred’s bedroom floor. Victory.

“Oh, S _uits_.”

Spoke too soon.

“Oh, Suits, by the Player’s Hand, I cannot leave this bed. I will never leave this bed again. I am _dying_ , Toris. Tell isä I am dying. Tell papa I am dying. Don’t tell Mattie, he’ll be too smug.”

“You are not dying.” Toris accepts the coffee cart gratefully from an amused-looking maid, and immediately begins preparing a cup. “You are not dying, you had too much to drink. I told you last night you should stop—you haven’t been sleeping or eating well, either.”

Toris brings the cup to Alfred’s bedside and takes in the sight of the rumpled prince. Alfred’s bright blue eyes are squinted and sleepy, but he is otherwise alright. He sips at the coffee and props himself up with all the fussy drama he can muster.

“I _had_ to drink Toris. Did you hear what they were saying? About the suitors, and the party, and the—the _wedding_?” Another fortifying sip of coffee, and Alfred is beginning to shine a little brighter, his voice tilting up into its usual tenor. “I can’t get married, Toris, I’m too young. I’m too beautiful. I have to run away and become a holy man.”

Toris has already left for the closets, returning with the clothing he’d laid out the night before. He hangs it on the armoire and waits patiently at the foot of the bed for his prince to stop having a fit.

Alfred is sitting up and dangling his bare legs over the side of the bed, his head in his hands. He barks out a mirthless laugh. “It’s really like waking up to a nightmare. Three more days, and it’s all decided. And I— ” He peeks morosely through his fingers at Toris, who regards him sympathetically.

“Never mind. Never mind! What’s for breakfast?”

* * *

1 July XX20

_Arthur -_

_Please send word you received my previous message._

_I cannot delay the matter any further._

_You remain unexpected._

_I will be expecting you._

_-M_

* * *

It is warm and noisy and crowded and horrible, so horrible, why can’t he disappear when he wants to? Every time he thinks he’ll get a moment of peace, there’s a dignitary who needs to be greeted, or a courtier who “hasn’t seen him since he was a boy,” or an awkward introduction to someone who isn’t of high enough status to solicit his brother’s hand, and is willing to settle for his instead.

To make matters worse, Francis is _here_ , tonight, now, for some unfathomable reason, and he keeps _staring_ at Matthew like he wants something, and Matthew has no idea what that means. He can’t even worry about what that means, because the party has been on for an hour, and he’s lost count of the number of hopefuls who have already approached the throne to vie for future queenhood.

To make matters damn near _unbearable_ he can feel Alfred’s eyes digging into him, can see the desperate white of his knuckles as he grips the arm of his chair, silent, a step behind the King, adorned and adored and ready to die if Matthew can’t keep his promise.

Matthew manages to slip away from a handsy courtier and makes his way discreetly to the mezzanine, grabbing a slice of cake on the way. He kneels beside Alfred and props the plate on his knee, offering a weak smile.

“Holding it together?”

Alfred’s brows furrow, his face speaking volumes in a language only the two of them understand. “I have to hold the entirety of Spades together, so surely I can survive this?” he offers a small smile and scarfs the cake down in two bites.

“What do you think so far, bunny?” Queen Tino asks with an eager smile, and both princes straighten up immediately.

“It’s fine, isä, but no one so far has seemed a fitting Queen of Spades.” Alfred says.

The King does not turn to speak, his gruff voice barely audible from just a couple feet away. “S’early. These are formalities. Later on, serious offers.”

Alfred sighs and props his chin in his hands, the very picture of spoiled royalty, though there was very real pain there. This was all formality. The precious few with any real chance at his hand were known to all of them, and it was only a question of who would make their offer, and who Alfred would choose _._ But tonight would decide that pool of potential suitors, once and for all— _that_ was serious. They had to show their intent by the end of the evening—midnight tonight.

“Do you think I could be a holy man?”

“No, never. You’d have to take a vow of silence.”

Matthew manages to laugh at his brother’s irritated huff as he reluctantly leaves the mezzanine, avoiding creepy Francis (seriously, what was the staring about? Did he need to alert the guards?) and letting himself be talked at by a decorated military man he did not know, pretending to listen with his eyes glued to the doors.

Where was he?

* * *

16 May XX20

_Gilbert -_

_I’m calling in that favour. And I am fatally serious—meet me in Lazuli, mid-July._

_-A.K._

_P.S. If you do not come, I will actually kill you._

* * *

The palace had barely changed in a century or more, so why was it surprising to find it so achingly, painfully familiar?

The walk from the common entrance to the palace proper was brutal, even in the night. They had not been offered a trip by carriage. But then, the guards had been rather desperate to keep them out altogether.

Gilbert whistles as they crest the final hill, the lights and sounds of Castle Spadia becoming more pronounced.

“You sure about this, Captain Kirkland?”

Arthur looks at him quizzically. “Have my actions or words thus far suggested I harbor even the smallest of doubts?”

Gilbert cackles. “I know you’re moony as a Heartite poet. But if you actually pull this off, which, with the awesome me at your side, you definitely will—are you serious about what happens next? That level of—” Gilbert shudders. “ _Responsibility?”_

Arthur can’t control it—he swallows, a big, obvious gulp, like a teenage boy preparing to ask for his first dance. “Can’t be helped.”

Gilbert stops for a moment, both of them breathing in the humid night air heavily. Then he laughs, long and hard, slapping one hand on his thigh and the other on Arthur’s back. “Mulligan. You really are a wild card. It can’t be helped!” He brushes a tear away, straightening up.

“Let’s go face the consequences then!” Gilbert states, directing them toward the sounds of the party.

Arthur stops. “There’s something we have to do first. Which may involve a little breaking and entering.”

“Breaking and entering...Castle Spadia.” Gilbert clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Excellent!’

“Also, you might get your hands dirty.”

Gilbert frowns sharply. “I didn’t agree to _that_.”

* * *

1 December XX15

Dear Captain Arthur James Kirkland, Commander of HMS Agapanthus,

Regarding your recent promotion to Captain and your honorable appointment, his majesty writes to congratulate you, and wishes to express his sincere hope that you and all under your command will sail calm waters, and return in safety. Remember always, you are the pride of Spades, and represent and protect her wherever you go.

_Arthur, we are all so proud of you! Do be safe, we eagerly await your return. I’ve attached letters from the King and the Princes. We all miss you (especially dear Alfred) but are so glad to hear of your continued success._

_Sincerely, His Majesty Queen Tino Oxenstierna of Spades._

-

_Arthur,_

_Isä says I have to write to you. He says you could drown or get marooned or be crushed by the ship if it breaks apart in a storm, and then our last words would be in anger, and I’d regret it._

_I’ll never forgive you if you do something stupid like that._

_Do you remember when we made paper boats, and held them to the window, sailing them on that tiny strip of ocean we could see from afar? You always said you were going to be a pirate when you grew up, so no one could tell you what to do._

_You always promised you’d take me with you._

_Well, you’re in my Navy, so I can tell you what to do. How about this: Eat shit and die, Arthur._

_P.S. I buried the thing you gave me. I dug up your favorite rose bush and buried it underneath. I hate you so much, I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I! HATE! YOU!_

_Sincerely, Prince Alfred Fidelitas Jones, Heir of the Kingdom of Spades_

* * *

Here’s how it looks from Arthur and Alfred’s perspective:

The doors are thrown wide. A figure, draped in finery, uniform jacket dripping with honours, steps in. Behind him, a frighteningly pale, slender figure in similar uniform slips in like a shadow. The crowd is silent. All one can hear is the thud of tall boots as Arthur stalks into the room, smoothly collecting a champagne flute and draining its contents. The crowd parts to grant him access to the stairs to the mezzanine, and like a panther prowling, he mounts them, coming before the King to slip into a low bow, then standing firm, undaunted. Ladies swoon. Men gape. A waiter faints, crashing into the table.

Here’s how it actually happens:

The door slams hard into the wall—someone has knocked the stopper off by accident. It bounces back awkwardly, and Gilbert catches it with his arm, knocking Arthur’s ridiculous hat askew. They stumble in. A few people turn to see what the hubbub is about, but quickly lose interest in these overdressed weirdos. Arthur desperately tries to get a waiter’s attention, and nearly loses his balance as he upends two flutes, then stands, glued to the floor, holding the empty glasses with uncertainty. Gilbert takes them. Arthur doesn’t know where he’s going. Matthew is struggling through the crowd, shouting at him and pointing at the Mezzanine. Arthur trips over a man’s cane, and his dumb hat falls off. Matthew steps on it. Gilbert drags Arthur to the steps, and helps him dizzily climb them. At the top, Arthur stops to pant, hands on his legs. He straightens, then promptly falls to his knees, only to climb back to his feet at the King’s bidding.

 _Now_ , everyone is silent.

“I have come to, uh, propose? To Alfred.”

Matthew, who has just come up the stairs behind them, groans. “No, that’s not right.”

“That’s not right.” Arthur announces to the King and Queen. Alfred is biting his lip so hard it starts to bleed.

“Captain Kirkland, are you here to announce your desire to join the prince’s potential suitors?” Queen Tino asks with no small delight, sending a sharp look toward King Berwald when he growls.

Alfred is on the edge of his seat, literally. The absolute minimum amount of butt required to be sitting is on the seat. He makes a noise like a dying animal, but luckily, no one notices.

Arthur breathes in deeply. “No, that’s not it either.”

Alfred falls over. His face smashes into the floor. The Queen gasps, Matthew shoves the King back into his seat as he rushes to check on his brother, and Arthur whites out for a second. Luckily, Gilbert keeps him upright.

“M’fine! I am f-stop, I’m _fine!”_ Alfred’s nose is bleeding, and a terrified guard is relaying instructions for first aid to a nearby maid. “I’m fine, what—you’re not here for—then what _are_ you here for?!” Alfred shouts.

“I don’t need to do that.” Arthur says, confidence shining through at last, his smile nearly manic. “You already agreed to marry me.”

“He did not.” The King says, eyes slitted. “He hasn’t agreed to marry anyone yet.”

Arthur nods to Gilbert and Matthew, who finishes helping Alfred back into his seat. “I have two witnesses here who can corroborate the claim—and this.”

Stepping forward hesitantly, Arthur kneels before a wide-eyed, white-faced Alfred, hand outheld. “It’s in need of a little polishing, but it’s still whole.”

Nestled in his palm is a little amethyst ring, thin and cheap and dirty, but its jewel still shining bright.

“Six years ago I proposed to the Prince with this ring.” Arthur begins, and Alfred carefully plucks the ring from his hand, holding it up to the light. “You—he said yes, then. He broke my jaw right after, and he buried the ring in the garden. But he did say yes, and Matthew and Gilbert were both there to hear it.”

“S’at true? Matthew.” The King’s question is a warning, but Matthew doesn’t flinch.

“It is. Gilbert was here to collect Arthur for service. I heard the proposal, and I heard Alfred accept.”

Gilbert grins wickedly. “Your Highness, as Admiral in His Majesty’s Naval for these past ten years, I have born witness to many things, some more believable than others. At times, I even question my own awesome sanity—but I can confirm, without a doubt, that these two crazy kids totally did secretly get engaged, right under your nose.” Matthew digs his elbow into the other man’s ribs for the duration of the entire speech with no effect.

The King pinches said nose and remembers the breathing exercises his Jack taught him. Alfred was what, sixteen at that time? Sure, they'd always _known_ but he'd thought—he'd just been trying to—and he can see paperwork, so much paperwork, and so many angry dignitaries and Suits, he was just trying to do things right for once. But he can also see his son, his pride and joy, finally looking happy again—that is, if—

“Alfred, is this what you want?”

The King turns—it is his Queen who has asked, and his eyes are shrewd and thoughtful as he looks over his potential replacement.

The Prince’s mouth opens, closes, his eyebrows knitting together, his hands fiddling with the ring—but the King knows the answer—they all do.

**Author's Note:**

> What even is ANY of this?  
> Yes, Tino calls Alfred bunny. He calls Matthew bear, polar bear, and roly-poly polar bear. It's all VERY cute.
> 
> Your comments keep me going.


End file.
